“I can,” snapped Spike. “He’s putting himself above the team.”
“Well, maybe it will all come out right,” said Joe, but his tone did not support his words, for he ended with a doleful sigh.
“Oh, you get out!” cried Spike cheerfully. “You’ve got the losing bugaboo in a bad form. Cheer up—the worst is yet to come.”
“Yes, a defeat,” murmured Joe, and then Spike hit him such a thump in the back that the pitcher had to gasp to recover his breath, and in doing so he forgot some of his gloomy thoughts.
The practice went on over the field, until the umpire called the captains together for the final conference, and an agreement on the ground rules. These were adjusted satisfactorily, and once more the inspiring cry rang out:
“Play ball!”
“Get ’em over, Joe,” advised Shorty Kendall, as the young pitcher walked out to his place. “Shoot ’em in good and hard, but keep ’em over the plate. I know this umpire. He’s fair, but he’s careful. You’ll have to work for all the strikes you get.”
“And I’m willing to,” declared Joe.
Somehow his confidence was coming back, and as he caught the new ball which the umpire tossed to him, he felt that he could pitch as he never had before. He was aware of the scowling glance of Weston, who sat on the bench, and, as Joe stooped over to rub some dirt on the ball, to render it less slippery, he wondered if the deposed pitcher had so managed to “pull strings” as to gain his end.
“Anyhow, I’ll pitch as long as I can,” thought Joe with grim determination.